


not ready yet

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flash Fic, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 03:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15234690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hank and Connor go through a box of Cole's things.





	not ready yet

Hank and Connor sit in the closet with a pile of old photos splayed out in front of them like a pack of cards. Tonight, Hank is the sort of drunk he gets when he switches his whiskey for tequila and all of the unpleasant memories creep up out of nowhere like mushrooms. Connor simply sits and listens. Hanks beams and hands Connor a picture of himself looking boyish and cradling Sumo like a baby. 

"Look how small he used to be." 

"I estimate that he is eight to nine weeks old in this photograph."

"I love Bernards, Connor. They are consistent... faithful... loyal... loving... kind..." Hank lists off until he runs out of fingers to count on. "Never get married, Connor."

"I do not intend to."

"Get a dog instead. Hey, can androids can even get married?"

"No.

"You're a lucky bastard." He snatches another photo up like a hawk. "This is my ex-wife." She is homely looking and conventionally attractive, her face is engaged in a warm smile and her arms are wrapped around Hank's neck. There is an engagement ring on her finger and Hank looks happy. There is an awkward tension. This is intrusive. Connor feels like he is eavesdropping because he knows that Hank wouldn't be telling him this if he was sober. 

"We went at it like cat and dog. I don't even remember what we argued about. Stupid, inconsequential things that didn't fucking matter. Never in front of Cole. But we never stopped. I was working too hard, too late."

"I am sure that your family appreciated the sacrifices you made, Hank." 

Hank passes Connor a photo of him and Cole. Cole is still a baby. He has two and a half teeth and grins from ear to ear, arms outstretched towards the camera. Hank looks proud. 

"Hey, he looks a bit like you." Connor acknowledges him with a curt nod but doesn't see the resemblance. He is not a baby. He is six feet tall and has a full head of hair and a complete set of teeth.

"Fuck, Connor." Hank crumples over with ugly sobs. "I wish I'd been around more. I missed so many fucking parent teacher conferences and soccer games. I never got to teach him to ride a bike. Never took him to an amusement park. I worked through his birthdays, through fucking Christmas. He only had five Christmases, Connor."

"Regret is a wasted emotion, Hank. You can not change the past." Connor awkwardly pats his back.

"I wish I'd asked him how his day was. I wish I'd let him wear his fucking dress up clothes to the store. He loved superheroes. I wish I'd taken more photos. I mean proper photos, real, physical ones."

Hank wipes his eyes and regains composure. 

"Pass me that box, would you?" Connor hands hims a rumpled box from the corner, buried beneath dust and old coats and Christmas decorations.

"I know this is fucking ridiculous but I feel like this is a way for me to hang on to him a bit, you know? I know he's gone but his his things are right here. We left his room the way he left it until we had to sell the house. You probably think I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy, Hank. I think you're a father processing his grief and you need somebody to witness it. I can't relate to what you are going through but I understand that it is probably easier for you to show me this because I am an android. So, go ahead. I am listening."

"Thanks, Connor." 

Hank's eyes well up like a child's as he pulls throngs of keepsakes out of the box: report cards, holey jumpers, a skateboard, two pairs of shoes and some old Halloween costumes. Connor doesn't need to know the significance of the items to understands that they have an onerous weight.

"He was good kid, Connor. Quiet. Really smart. Observant. Room always looked like a fucking tsunami ripped through it. Loved to draw." Hank looks at a crayon drawing with an impression of a police car on it. He smiles nostalgically to himself. Then he crumbles it and throws it at the wall, overcome with the resentment that comes with seeing his son's things nearby but not him. When Hank drinks he is vulnerable and rough around the edges.

"You know what, Connor? Cole's dead. He doesn't need his alarm clock or his lunch box or this fucking macaroni necklace. And I don't need them around to remind me that he's gone." 

"Then perhaps it is time to throw them out, Hank. Keeping all these objects around you seems to prolong the process of grief.

"How fucking dare you? No! How could I even think of throwing them out? What kind of father would that make me?"

"Your memories are not housed in these items, Hank. These objects simply trigger them."

"I know that! But it makes me feel better! Makes me feel like he's still there when I open up the closet and see his jacket hanging there!" There is a look of longing on Hank's face and Connor realises that none of this is dispensable.

"I know you mean well but there is no book on grief, son. Maybe one day I'll have a fit of determination and I'll throw all this crap out. But I'm just not ready yet." Hank settles his chin on Connor's head and shuts his eyes. Hank can't wait for the day that he wakes up to find that Cole isn't the first thing on his mind or the day he can settle down at night and he won't be his last thought before he goes to sleep.

“You will know when you are ready. Until then, don’t feel obliged to.”

"I think I'm ready to talk to someone."

Connor is elated.

"Connor?

"Yes, Hank?"

"Die on me again and I'll fucking kill you."


End file.
